The Age of Men
by ConstantTraveller
Summary: Not all Elves sailed to the West and left the land of Men. Those who stayed behind didn't always stay hidden. These are the stories of those who remained... [Modern AU, One Shots] First story: Troy
1. Troy

**The Age of Men**

 **Synopsis:** not all Elves sailed to the West and left the land of Men. Those who stayed behind didn't always stay hidden. These are the stories of those who remained... [Modern AU] First story: Troy

 **NA:** I absolutely love the idea of the modern world crossing over with the ancient world that Tolkien created. So I am going to be writing a series of one-shots, featuring Elves and their interactions with the modern world. This first one is within Troy and features Hector (brother of Paris).

Okay, so this is going to be written in a format that is similar to how Homer's works are written. In his stories, there is a particular style that is really intriguing and both interesting to read and interesting to write. It isn't my usual style but I wanted to keep my writing consistent with the era.

If you enjoy my story, please review. My next may be... WW2. I honestly haven't decided yet, so I can be swayed...

* * *

Hector stood atop the great walls of Troy and looked far off into the distance.

Beyond the city lay the unending, unquenchable fires of his enemies. For years, smoke had risen from the now permanent camp and threatened the sanctity of his home and hearth. Despite his great love for his brother and the potential honor that he could personally achieve through the glory of war, he often resented Paris for the mayhem that he had brought to their doorstep. Could he truly blame Helen for falling in love, a condition no doubt spurred on by some mischief loving God? Perhaps Poseidon had hatched some new, scheming plot, as many times the God of unruly waves and waters had done before?

In his heart, he wondered whether he would ever see the plains before him barren once more. Who was he to stand up against the greatest warriors who now lived? Was he truly a match for Odysseus's skills as an archer, or the swift feet of Achilles or the sheer strength of Ajax?

He sighed and leaned against the rough stone. The space was deserted, for not every part of the great wall was manned with guards. It was for this reason that Hector chose the spot, so that he could be alone.

A part of him struggled with the war itself. It had been brought to his home, and for that, he would always react in kind and with pride. However, he didn't deny the validity of his enemies fight. An oath they had all sworn to each other, when Helen had been betrothed to Melenaus, the King of Sparta. An oath that they had proven was not taken lightly. If he had sworn such a promise, in front of Kings and Princes, he would have leapt at the chance of proving his worth and earning honor. By stealing herself away with his brother, Helen had brought pain and anger to her forgotten King. If his wife Andromache had done the same, no God or Man could stop his quest for retribution.

The wind blew through his hair, grazing his cheeks refreshingly. Above him, the goddess Selene drove her shining and radiant chariot, moving ever closer to Eos, that fresh-faced and rosy guardian of Dawn.

"You look troubled, friend," said a voice.

Hector raised himself from his leaning position and looked over to the voice.

His breath caught in his throat, as he beheld what could only be a God.

The man exuded a radiance that he had never seen before. Countless time he had heard talk of the beauty of the Gods and never had he truly grasped the meaning. The man's golden hair shone in the moonlight, as fine and beautiful as the tresses of Hera herself. His skin, unmarked by the hardships of age, held neither line nor wound. Was this Apollo, the God that he had worshipped for years?

Hector had studied the Gods in his time and knew that such a visit would not be gifted lightly. His moderate nature made him shrink from groveling and his good sense made him wait patiently for the God to reveal his identity on his own whim. Such as with Zeus and his maidens, it was not for man to dictate the flow of time, but for the Gods to bend Man to their whim.

"I am troubled, stranger," he replied, warily.

"A stranger I am, yes, but perhaps one who may be able to cure your concerns or lend advice, if wanted."

The stranger moved to stand beside him, looking out onto the plain and the hoards of men that now slept in the distance. His face seemed pensive and bothered by the sight, as if confused at the actions of the enemy.

"I always welcome the council of others, for my concerns are not unique to myself but are surely the haunt of many men who have since lived and died in this often cruel world. I am Prince Hector, Son of King Priam who is the child of the founder of Troy and so most at home within these walls than all others. Long have I looked out upon this field of torches and shields and wondered at the purpose of this war. While my actions defend the people of my city, with each act of defense I tear from the world a father, a brother or child, and this lays heavily upon my mind. Truly, stranger, can you answer me this: is this war worth fighting for?"

The stranger lay silent for a moment, although his eyes danced as he thought over his reply. Hector noted the way he seemed to be unmoved by the revelation of his identity. Only Heroes, Kings or a God would be unmoving in the presence of a Prince. All others would cast themselves to the ground, praying for his good fortune and health.

In time, he turned away from the view and his eyes flashed as he spoke to Hector, "Hector, Prince of Troy and child of this city, to ask this question, you must decide whether your people are worth fighting for. Are you Prince in name only, or Prince by decision and action?"

Appalled at the suggestion that he wouldn't be faithful to his people, Hector replied, "I am a Prince by decision and action. I would gladly die under the defense of these people. But to continue this fight over the lust and whims of a woman... to see my people wounded and killed because of her decision, this pains me..."

"Do you truly think that this war is being fought because of Helen, who so readily abandoned her child and husband for another?"

"If not for Helen, then for what?"

"Long has Troy attracted the attention of the great Kings and Princes of afar," said the stranger, his expression serious, "I have travelled to many kingdoms, and spoke to many of the men in the field below us long before this war was launched. It could not be denied that there was jealousy of this cities riches and of the peace and beauty that it upheld. The spoils of previous wars had grown thin for many Heroes, who looked towards their own dwindling herds and pleading people without grain or land to give them. Soon, their eyes looked keenly in the direction of this city, which stood strongly, of that there is no doubt, but also stood isolated and alone in his potential defense. United, the great Heroes would prove difficult to defeat and with this in mind, they launched their ships and readied their galleys for loot and riches."

"Who are you?" Replied Hector, "that you sat by the hearths of so many great and noble men, although enemies of mine they now are? Are you some God, come to me to cast doubt in my mind and so spurn on your own desires to see Troy fall and vanquished from history? Or are you some wise and knowing sage, who comes to me with words of prophecy for me to heed?"

"I am neither," responded the stranger, although his lips betrayed a smile of humor at the suggestions, "I am not a God, who plays with the lives of Men and never understands the fragility and passion of mortal life. In my time I have seen many friends pass and enter that inevitable realm of death where no life can return from. But neither am I prophet, for my eyes cannot see the future as many of my own King and Queens have once been capable of and whose departure signified the end of my peoples presence and the dawning of the age of Men."

"So then you declare yourself to be other than Man, although not a God or a Prophet as I had guessed."

"Yes, for there are more things with thoughts and feelings on this world than just Man. Long have they been forgotten, although, like myself, some still remain, despite the call of the sea and the longing to leave this land."

"For what purpose do you then enter this war between Men?"

The stranger sighed, "Such a question is one that I ask of myself often. Men are complicated by nature and their actions often confuse me. Yet, I find them immensely curious and capable of great feats and actions. In many ways, my curiosity has impeded my journey to join my people. But I did not come to you, seeing your expression of dismay from afar, to speak of my own journeys and ordeals but to offer you guidance and advice, such that I could give. Now, tell my Prince Hector of Troy, what is it that you fight for?"

He paused and looked behind him, at the grandly light palace of his father. Like some monument to the Gods, it stood proudly in the night as a testament to the great wealth and strength of his people. Below it, less regal but no less important, where the houses of his people.

"I fight for the peace of my people."

"If I have learned anything about war," said the stranger, "is that the drive to fight does not come from grand pictures of nobility and pride. It comes instead for the want to see your friends and family safe, for the anguish that losing may cause if the battle harms those persons who you love more than you love yourself. Who, among these vast city, does Prince Hector love beyond reason?"

"My wife," he answered instantly, "and my son, Scamandrius, named for that great river which lies near my beloved city and feeds life to its people. My father, who is wise and caring and has never been cruel, and... my brother, who thinks more with his heart than his head, but does so only because it is his nature."

The stranger smiled, his expression kind and warm, "these are the people you must fight for. They are the people who will be affected by your victories and failures, and these are the people you must think of when you rally your men for battle. For when the time of reckoning draws near, and the final stroke is made, it will be them who appear in your mind and guide your hand."

The strangers words made him silent and thoughtful. Every morning he woke with a pain in his chest and a knot of anxiety in his stomach. Beyond the hope of glory and riches, his reasons for fighting slept soundly in their beds, with little thoughts in their mind for the agony their safety filled him.

"And who do you live for?" He asked, wondering at the stranger now.

The strangers expression fell, as if a great cloud of morbidity had descended over him.

"Those who I once lived and fought for are now gone but I will speak of them to you. For many years I have not shared their stories and I fear that my memories of them will fade one day. Of many Kings there are today, but none were as kind and noble as the King of Gondor, Aragorn. Humbled by the death of his parents and educated by the most learned of my people, he fought in his life for the freedom of Man and for a peace between _all._ It was he who taught me to look towards Men and to not choose the isolation of status or power over friendship and peace."

"I have not heard of this King of Gondor, although a gracious lord he must have been."

"He reigned long ago, although his line still continues today and upholds the values he once fought for. And this is why my advice is true and said with purpose, for I know that my dear friends blood still flows and carries on his love of peace."

The stranger looked squarely at him, and Hector cocked his head thoughtfully. The look he gave him seemed pointed, as if he was trying to communicate some idea to him.

"Surely these heirs of such a King are noble indeed. Do these still lead men, or have they fallen in status, although not honor, and now work the land like so many do, struggling against the elements for the benefit of those less noble above them?"

The stranger laughed and the sound of his voice made Hector think of bells in the wind, or the whisper of a Harp as it flows through the open doors of a seaside palace.

"Men where never masters of subtlety," replied the stranger, "and even the heir of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, stands confused before me at my words. How this reminds me of my conversations many ages before, where proud Gimli would regard me with confusion, as if I spoke in riddles or Quenya!"

"Stranger!" Replied Hector, "you say now that I am the heir of your long passed friend? That my line extends and once ruled over a land of Gondor? You forget that our family, fiercely proud of our line, can trace our history back, from our ancestor Tros, to his grandfather Dardanus and to the mighty and powerful Zeus, who resides on his throne in Olympus."

"True that your line is long, but its start is not with Zeus, who you believe rules from the sky with his wife, fair Hera. Your line stretches farther than you can conceive, and, indeed, does not start with Aragon but further still stretches to those immortal twins who chose wisely for themself and further still until the creation of this land and the first passage of my people."

"And by this, stranger, you tell me through your stories of friendship that you are eons old? Perhaps immortal?"

"Take from that what you will," he replied, although the light of Selene showed Hector a man who took no care of the passing of days or nights, and who sought light for other reasons than those of Man would. "But in my revelations, I still seek to console you and to give you reason for fighting against those who would wish to take away your peace and people. At some point, you will be no doubt called upon to battle against a man of the enemy, perhaps Agamemnon, Ajax or Odysseus. These men, although campaigning with malicious purpose, are strong and cunning, and will not hesitate against you. After your sacrifices are made to Apollo and the thigh bone of your whitest heifer is burned upon the fire and the entrails buried among the hot embers, you must also cast your mind to your friends and family, and remember why you fight as fiercely as you must."

"And yet you tell me to offer tribute to the Gods, although you yourself are immortal and wise?"

"I did not come here to bring doubt into your mind about your ways and your beliefs. These are yours and are not mine to take away. Do your rituals and sacrifices as you always would, for these actions may bring comfort to you and to those who believe in their power. Of the Gods' existence, I will not speak, for it is not my place to do so."

Hector nodded, his mind whirling with the information he had learned. He wondered whether the man was indeed not a God, but instead a Titan. His admission of being unable to see the future meant he was not Prometheus, although his interest in Man spoke of a similar disposition.

The night had become still during their talk, until only the distance sounds of restless birds could be heard echoing. He thought of his son and wife, and whether either had noticed his absence. Soon, Dawn would arise in her fresh and rosy-cheeked way, and the war council would make a decision. Soon, he would face a warrior of renown in single combat and battle for the fate of his people and city. Or, he reminded himself, for the fate of his wife and child.

The stranger didn't speak, but looked out towards the fires of the enemies camp and then turned away. He watched as the man walked away from him, his footsteps light and soundless. His own breathing seemed loud in comparison to his quiet ways.

Although he longed to shout and stop the man from leaving, the words died in his throat.

In his time of need, motivation had presented itself. If the stranger had wished to offer more, he would have done so at his own volition. A part of him that he never wanted to fully acknowledge, feared the stranger who had revealed to him secrets that he dared not fully believe. Perhaps, questioning the Gods would be his downfall? Perhaps, the stranger had been a test of Apollo and had spoken in riddles and analogies, and not in truths?

His mind felt clouded as he thought, as if some subtle magic had caused his thoughts to fly to the wind and refuse to manifest.

A new thought occurred to him and he wondered at how he could so readily allow the stranger to depart. Since his youth, he had yearned for a visit from some being who could guide him and provide him with the secrets of the world. Yet, one had presented himself and he had so quickly allowed him to slip off, without even a parting word.

Within a moment, the haze had disappeared and he found his voice once more.

"Do not leave! I have more to ask!"

The darkness swallowed the stranger, leaving Hector alone atop the walls of Troy.

He breathed in the fresh, cold air. In the silence, his breath sounded loud and oafish, as if disturbing the tranquil peace of the space.

He sighed, accepting that the situation had always been out of his control. He probably had been chosen for the visit, long ago. Even if it seemed that the stranger had spied him from afar. It was easier for him to accept that the situation was beyond him than rue the opportunity that he had missed.

The first touches of light started to glimmer at the horizon, as if a curtain was being slowly drawn open on the world.

He turned away, seeking warmth of his wife's body beside him and the sounds of his son as he greeted another new day.

* * *

 **AN:** I hope that you enjoyed that... let me know if you had any thoughts or critique. Also, let me know if you have any suggestions for other timelines and scenarios.


	2. The North

**The Age of Men**

Chapter Summary: His story unfinished, an Elf journeys back to the domain of men.

 **AN:** Please note that these stories are more so Oneshots, and not a continuation of any previous character arc (unless stated).

* * *

"Up! Up onto the table, Baudry! Just push the tankard off. Push it. No, off the table! Edy, can you help the lad? He seems to be strugglin' with this?" 

Edy knocked the tankard off the table, hardly sparing her husband a glance. Using her forearm, she quickly cleared off the rest of the space. She saw her son's face flush red at the annoyed tone of his father. 

"Okay, boys, nice and easy," said Yates as he held the strangers skull, as if it was some fragile new born. 

The men lowered the stranger onto the table gently and Yates released his hold. 

An audible sound of relief filled the cottage. The path from the beach was well travelled but precarious at points. There wasn't any smooth path or dirt road. In times past it had warded off invasions, stopping horses leaping from beached ships and galloping into their peaceful abodes. In daily life it proved painful to navigate, although the locals could find their footing in the dark or with their eyes closed. In time of need, no cart could be led down to fetch injured fishermen or shipwrecked sailors. 

"Well, that was a bit of excitement," said Yates, crossing his arms on his chest. "Good spottin' Lander." 

"I wouldn't have seen him, truly, if it hadn't been for that heavy current pushin' us down. God be blessed for taking us to him." 

"Aye, that's the truth. Although it is this stranger here who should be making his thanks. If he survives, mind you. Edy, what can be done?" 

Rolling up her sleeves, she stooped over the stranger. 

He was a mess. Clearly he had been afloat at sea for some time, for his clothes were stained from seawater and dirty beyond reckoning. His face bore a large wound and an open, deep slash on his arm drizzled blood to the reeds underfoot. He looked starved and sickly, but not irretrievable. Most notably was what wasn't harmed or marked, for his height was taller than Yates and his skin seemed smooth and unmarked. 

"Baudry, fetch your ma some water, would you?" 

Her son nodded, headed over to the hearth, picked out the biggest iron pail he could find and slipped out of the cottage door. She sighed, wiping her hand across her forehead and trying to forget all of the other work that was to be pushed aside. She wasn't sure of whether she wanted her son to be around. She was worried that the stranger was irreparably damaged and her options would turn from nursing him to making him as comfortable for his end as possible. 

She methodically scoped out over inch of his exposed flesh. He was damaged but not fatally so. If, she reminded herself, she had the skills to heal him properly. 

"He'll be alright," she said to her husband, "I think. I'll bathe him, sew up this big wound on his arm and dress the other cuts and scrapes. Mainly he looks half drowned and in need of a good feed and some watered wine to wash it down. Whether he wakes up for that is questionable." 

Yates nodded, his bushy eyebrows furrowing together.

Although a large and intimidating looking man, she knew that her husband had a heart of goodness within him. She could see that the stranger's state truly played on his mind. As an active member of their town's community, he took it upon himself to make all newcomers as welcome as they wished. A death on his homes hearth would trouble him for years. 

"He is lucky," said Yates, "since that storm is coming in. Although my thought is that he bore the brunt of that first pass two days ago. If so, he must have been on that beach for longer than I first thought." 

"Perhaps," she said, "but there is no use worrying about it. The best we can do is try to mend him." 

She headed over to one of her old containers. She had filled it with old rags and some strips of clean cloth. In one, smaller container was a thick ointment of herbs and fats. Long ago, her mother had taught her how to make it. 

"Men," said Yates, "this storm is only coming closer. Get yourself down to the beach and haul up our boats to the sandy shores, turn them over and secure them with the anchors to the ground. Don't waste any time or you'll meet the same fate as our friend here." 

The men all nodded, each sparing a passing glance towards the stranger on the table as they left. The wind howled against the door as they opened and shut it. She did not envy their coming job and the cold fingers they would bear as reward. 

Baudry returned; his face flushed from the exertion and his arms bulging from the weight of the pail. She lifted it from him with one hand and fixed the metal handle to the hearth's hook, balancing it just slightly above the fire. 

She dipped one of her rags into the water and wiped down the stranger's arms. The water dripped from his arm, streamed off the table and fell to the reeds below. They would need to replace the flooring after. 

"Yates, be a dear and remove his clothing, would you?" 

Her husband made a noise, but didn't hesitate as he went about his task. Soon, the man was lying unclothed, although a thin blanket had been placed over his hips to shield his modesty. Unmoved, Edy went about her task, cleaning and dressing the wounds of the man, hardly concerned with his unclothed state. When she had given birth to Baudry, she would have been appalled to think that any person would judge her in such a state. She had opened her legs wide to her midwife and never had a thought for her immodesty. When it came to health, the decency of the civilised world seemed trivial to her. 

Outside, the wind grew in intensity, until the door rattled in its place and the fire flickered. She hardly noticed the racket, so intent was she on caring for the sick man. Her only concern was to stop her hand from shaking as she tried to gently sew his wounds closed. 

Throughout it all, the man hardly stirred. He seemed deeply unconscious. 

After a few hours, she sat back on a nearby stool. Her husband sat nearby, his face ashen from watching her sewing and cleaning the man's injuries. He had said not a word, his eyes only moving from her hands to look at the rattling door. 

Thankfully, Baudry had fallen asleep soon after her care had begun and now lay in his nearby cot, his chest gently rising and falling. 

"You did well, Edy. If his humours are not affected, he should make it fine through the night." 

"I am tired," she said, softly. The soft light cast by the fire hurt her eyes and she longed to simply lie down and sleep. 

Yates stood and walked over to her. Standing beside her, he wrapped his large arms around her head and circled his arms around her. She leaned into his torso, sighing deeply and feeling the peace of a well-done job come over her. 

"Edy -," said her husband, urgently. 

She pushed herself up, her eyebrows rising at the sight of the stranger. 

The stranger stared up at the ceiling. However, she felt within her that he wasn't truly awake. Although his lids had opened, they remained half lidded and unblinking. The sight was eerie and seem to her utterly inhuman. 

"Is he…?" She trailed off, unable to find the words. 

"I don't know. Perhaps it is an effect of his ailments?" 

"I have never heard of such a thing, if it is." She stood for a moment, looking at him, "he doesn't seem to be in pain or unwell." 

Yates remained silent. 

"What if I have invited some demon into my home?" 

"Don't be foolish, Yates," she responded, "I am sure that there is some reasonable explanation for this. Let's not jump to any conclusions yet." 

She felt her heart jump as the man's eyes suddenly moved. They flickered, as if their focus had returned and they now actually _saw._ He moved his head slightly, as if the pain of his injuries had just arrived. 

"Whoa there, fella," said Yates, approaching the stranger cautiously, "careful. You've been injured but you're safe now." 

The stranger frowned slightly, as if realising for the first time that he was unwell. He looked around the room, his intelligent and quick eyes taking in all the details. Slowly, he sat up slightly, his elbow propping himself up. 

Edy stayed back at the wall, her nerves suddenly coming into full effect. 

She had been so caught up in nursing him to health that he hadn't really looked at the person she was caring for. Regardless of her love for her husband, she couldn't deny that the man was startlingly attractive. Despite his emaciated form and wounds, his profile was strong, his cheekbones high and eyes shockingly clear. She felt that she was not looking at a man but some form of messenger from heaven. She felt foolish thinking such thoughts, and she hoped that he didn't turn out to be some scoundrel. If he were, she would feel utterly naïve for thinking so. 

"Where am I?" The stranger said, his voice clear and strong. Unlike the hoarse voices of the village men, his seemed almost musical. 

"Where do you think you are?" Replied Yates, his answer guarded and careful. If the stranger were some sort of scout, they would be foolish to reveal the name of their town and their geographic position. It didn't seem likely but there was a change in the air lately and discussions of violence and unrest in the lands. 

"I do not know," he answered, softly. "I last remember my ship overturning in the rough seas, and the silence of the deep water as I felt myself blacken…" 

"So you are a sailor?"

The man winced as he sat up more, "I would not profess to be a master in the art. As my condition surely shows…"

Yates smiled, the attempt at humour being well received, "Lad, I'm sure you're better than you say. The seas yonder here are rough and unruly. If you strayed far from shore, even the best of our villages seaman would struggle in such weather."

The man's face softened slightly, "you are kind. And your help with mending me is appreciated. Where was I found?"

"On our shore, north of our village. No ship in sight."

The man made no noise, but his eyes darted to a far corner as if to think. Was this far off his course? Or did the waves push him further then intended?

Suddenly, his eyes locked onto hers and she felt her cheeks deepen into a red at their intensity.

"Ah, this is Edy," said Yates, noticing the direction of his gaze, "my wife. She nursed and healed you as best she could."

"I am in your debt," he said sincerely as his face softened. "I would have been lost if it wasn't for you both."

Edy squared her shoulders, dismissing her girlish fancies and trying to present herself as the respectable woman she was, "You just don't tear those stitches.  
They took me a long while to get right."

"Of course," said the man, his mouth curling into a smile.

"What is your name, stranger?" She asked, suddenly curious. She hated feeling meek and tongue tie. She would not be intimidated by his good looks and soft voice.

The man paused, his mouth half open. It seemed to Edy that the word was on the tip of his tongue and yet unable to pass through the prison of his lips. His eyes were so expressive to her that she could almost read his thoughts as they crossed his mind. To her, he seemed lost and unsure; a stranger in a strange land.

"It is Galen," said the man, his words carefully and slowly spoken.

Edy was not a dim woman and she could tell that he had made up his name. While its fraudulence concerned her, she did not feel overly suspicious because of it. Something in the man's demeanour put her at ease. She sensed that Yates felt the same, as she felt that he would have questioned the man further if he felt concerned.

"Do you have family to travel to?" She asked, her mind moving to the future.

"No. I am quite sure that I am alone now."

He spoke as if it was a stale fact, not something to mourn over. She thought of her husband and son, and her mother who lived nearer to the village. She thought of how heartbroken she would be to lose them. Yet, Galen seemed untroubled by his aloneness, as if he had time to prepare himself for its reality. He spoke as if it was a detail of the weather; something that he had long accepted as being fact and reality.

"Where does your family hale from?" Asked Yates.

Edy turned from the man and she fetched the jug of wine. She poured it into a mug and placed it on the table near the man. Galen's eyes flickered to it, but quickly returned to those of Yates. The mug remained untouched.

"From a forest across the sea. My family lived within it, hunting and living off the land. We had no desire for living amongst men and sought instead the serenity of the deep glades and high trees. When they had all departed from my land, I made my own path across the ocean and so sit now here, rescued from my poor skills of navigation."

"Such a life would have been hard indeed," said Yates, "it is trouble enough to find food from the seas, though the bounty of nature is large and we do not often go without fish in our nets. Do you hail from Liege perhaps? Or Netherland? Or France? My knowledge of the other lands is not great but I would think all others would be too far to sail from unassisted. Unless you sailed with others who were not as fortunate and who did not survive the wild and untamed North Seas?"

"Nay, I did not sail with others. Only myself and the light of Earendil to guide me."

She traded a glance with Yates but his vacant expression told her clearly that he had no recollection of the light. Beyond that, Galen had ignored most of the man's questions. It appeared to her that no recognition of their names had passed over him.

"I do not wish to rush you and I want you to know that my house and hearth are open to you as long as you truly need but what are your plans Galen? If you are without family or friends and in a strange land, how do you hope to live?"

The man sighed, pulling himself to a more comfortable sitting position. He pulled up the light cloth covering his modesty, ensuring that it covered him no matter his position.

"I have no plans as of yet. My mind was only to seeking new lands. I had no thought to tie myself to a strategy, lest my environment prove unsuitable for it."

"This may be too forthright," said Yates, "but when you are mended, would you consider settling here? The winter is fast approaching, as this hard storm has shown, and we need more fish and stores. When winter comes, the snow will make the land difficult to travel upon, especially if you rely on wild game and foraging for your food. Folk in these lands are less open to travellers in winter as well, and I fear that you may not have help along the way if you are relying on their open hands. I mean no disrespect, nor do I imply that you can't look after yourself. But people are wary in these parts and I would be doing you no favours if I failed to mention so."

Galen sat in silence for a moment. Edy stared at him while he did so, taking the rare moment to watch him. She noticed that his hair was almost golden, a colour that was exceedingly rare in their parts. Despite the mess that he had arrived in, it didn't seem unkempt, merely dirty from the seawater. She could tell that it would be long, healthy and glowing when washed. Her own hair remained untameable; dark, bushy and unpredictable.

She noticed as well that his ears were… deformed, although they didn't look ugly. They merely seemed differently shaped then hers. If anything, their shaped only served to increase the nobility of his facial structure, and make his eyes appear wider and his cheekbones higher.

Galen spoke, "I think I will stay then. You and your wife have been kind to me, and so far I have felt comfortable and safe. It would be good for me to stay and learn about the world that I have landed in, for I have been absent from news and I am ignorant to all happenings."

Yates smiled, "Excellent. I can arrange for you to stay in the village inn, free of charge provided you assist with our fishing and doings around town."

"Excellent," Galen replied, although a shadow passed swiftly over his face. It appeared to Edy that he was tired. More tired than anyone she had seen before. It looked, in that small moment, like he had seen and experienced a thousand years of work and toil.

"Yates," she said, "I believe that our guest is injured and tired. It is late, as well."

"She's right," he said, "it is well past time that we went to bed. I can imagine that the table is uncomfortable as a place to rest. We can offer you our own bed, and we can sleep on the floor tonight."

"This table is fine for me," replied the man, "I have slept on worse."

"I must insist," said Edy, upset at the notion of her guest being so uncomfortable. She detested the idea of sleeping on the floor but she would never make her guest feel uncomfortable. A small part of her hoped that he refused her husbands offer.

"And I must insist that I remain here."

She looked at her husband, who clearly wanted to continue to argue the point.

"We relent," said Yates. "Help yourself to wine and bread if you grow hungry. And call out if you are in pain and need help."

"Thank you," he replied, "I truly am thankful for your help."

Edy smiled, her heart light at having successfully nursed him to consciousness. She had never done so before.

"I may need to check your bandages later," she said, "and perhaps change them in the morning."

He nodded, "thank you."

It took her only a few moments to get ready for bed. Quickly, she checked on Baudry, who hadn't stirred since lying down for sleep. She also tested the door, feeling nervous at the way it rattled in the wind.

When she had blown out the candles and crawled into bed, the only light of the room was the embers of the hearth. The room was only dimly illuminated, but enough for her to make out the strangers profile. The wind flew against their cottages walls, creating an eerie howl that made her agitated and overly alert.

Sleep refused to come, so she kept her gaze on the stranger.

Once again, his eyes remained open, although he looked otherwise asleep. His eyes were unfocused and staring, as if the ceiling didn't exist and he looked onwards to the stars.

She watched him until her eyes became dry and sore, and sleep fought her for dominion.

Still, his eyes remained open.

She couldn't remember falling asleep. However, her dreams were full of laughter and dancing. She walked barefoot in a beautiful forest, the stars bright and shining above. In the distance, a woman with golden tresses danced to the beat of a small band, a star in her hand as she whirled and twirled.

After a while, it was clear to her that Galen had no immediate plans for leaving.

His wounds had healed well, in fact, better than anyone had expected. Within a week, the cuts and marks were nearly all but faded. She could tell that Yates found his fast recovery fascinating, although he maintained a general outlook of being calm and composed.

The village flourished with Galen's help. They had housed many travellers before who had taken advantage of their kindness. Beggars who would sleep from house-to-house, pleading for food and sleep but taking no effort to repay the towns kindness. They had also housed violent ruffians, and one woman stood clear in her mind as a stranger they always should have refused and who had paid for her crimes with her life.

But Galen hadn't interrupted the flow of their village. He had at first been quiet and thoughtful, taking jobs wherever he could and spending long nights in the village inn with an untouched pint of beer, simply listening to the locals stories. His interest in them had only increased the generally positive feeling towards him, as it was rare for strangers to actually _care_. As far as the kingdom was concerned, the town was only another drop of tax revenue in a pool of waiting cash for the King.

He had surprised the other villagers at first. He had a preference for keeping his hair long and plaited with complex patterns. The men in the village often had longer hair, but only as a matter of laziness and only ever to their shoulders. His trickled down his back, straight and perfect, no matter the environment.

She had grown fond of the man and so invited him back regularly for food and drink. Nearly every other day, he was either dining at her table or helping with some task for Yates. With his efforts, the near collapsing shed for the horses was rebuilt and the pigs sty was re-fenced. Her home started to look like a proper place to raise a child.

Baudry could hardly leave him alone, constantly following him around as he completed odd jobs or asking question after question about his thoughts and deeds. To his credit, Galen only seem amused by his presence, although many adults would have found their patience run dry.

She trusted the wisdom of children. They were silly creatures and times and frustrating beyond measure but there was a sight to them that adults seemed to lack. Adults seemed trapped within the reality and logic of the world, unable to make leaps of faith beyond what their own minds could imagine. Children seemed to live in a space of chaos and possibility, their minds flexible to the possibilities of existence.

As Galen settled in and years passed, turning into decades, Baudry miraculously seemed to retain that sense of wonder. Instead of watching the men work, he started to shoulder the burdens as he could.

Edy felt the years press upon her, like weights on her shoulders. Her body dropped, her strength seemed to diminish and the cold penetrated her bones like it never had. Yet, Galen remained unchanged. He still observed the locals with interest, as if he had all the time in the world to soak up a world he had never known. He seemed unaffected by the passing days, as if to him they were mere hours.

Their winter stocks had never been so bountiful, whether that was from the extra set of hands or the renewed sense of morale was unsure. All Edy knew was that the village was growing. Babies were born, houses built and the residents seemed closer than ever. She felt old, tired and slow but positive about the future of her loved ones. Baudry started to approach his adult years and Yates now delegated work more than he completed it.

Their village, peaceful and humble, could only remain pristine and untouched for so long.

Visitors started to speak of strange happenings and of bands of men travelling without concern for the law. Pyres of smoke started to appear on the horizon, as if people lived like nomads and slept under the stars. The North had always drawn men of ill repute but never on the scale they were beginning to see.

Galen took up another role as the years passed. His skills in bow carving were unable to be matched. He hadn't revealed his masterful skills straight away but instead gradually introduced them through fine furniture and tool carvings, done as favours. Their quality had surprised all of them, who had only ever made do with their own limited knowledge and skills. They had never had a village carpenter, as each man had built his own items.

His first bow was made for Baudry, now a man in his own right and part of a new generation of locals. He had presented the gift on his birthday, as he had crossed the invisible line from child to adult.

"I can't accept this, Galen. It's too… remarkable for a man like me," said Baudry, in wonder at the gift.

Edy wanted to grab the bow herself and examine it, but she kept herself silent and composed as they talked.

"I carved it for you, Baudry. It will take some practice before you can even draw the strings but I think you have a keen eye that would be good for an archer."

"I… I don't know what to say. This is amazing."

Baudry turned it over in his hands, running his hands down the side of the curved wood with care. She saw him peer at something on the bow with interest. To her, the design looked like a flourish that curled and wrapped around the wood decoratively.

"What is this?"

"Oh," said Galen, his face showing surprise at how quickly the other man had spied the writing, "that is the script of my people."

Galen seemed reluctant to say further, although Baudry, too focused on the bow, continued to probe, "the writing is beautiful. What does it say?"

Galen sighed, his eyes taking on that far off look once more, as if he was looking through time itself, "It speaks of Gil-Galad, an old King who fell tragically but who remained for eons a symbol of hope, courage and bravery. I carved it on your bow to infuse it with the same humble bravery that he once bore."

"I haven't heard of this King," Baudry said and then he laughed as he looked from the bow to Galen, "Which considering that I've never left this village isn't too big of a surprise. He does sound amazing though. Would you ever tell me about him?"

"Maybe one day," said Galen, his face shadowed and closed, "but speaking of him makes me reflect on all that I've lost and so would be hard for me. Perhaps soon I should take you into the forest and show you the art of hunting and tracking?"

She thought his last question a sort of divergence from the topic. However, Baudry jumped at the suggestion with an excitement she had hardly seen herself.

"Those are skills that I have only ever dreamed of acquiring. Could we go soon?"

Galen laughed, "I almost thought to ask if you're mother would allow us but… it occurs to me that you are a man of your own now. A man with a weapon."

"Has this only just occurred to you, Galen? I have been a man of my own for many years now. Although, perhaps my presence in my family home and my…  
bachelor state is what you refer to?"

"No, Baudry, I meant no offense, it is not due to your state of living but more so my own notions of age and growth. I still see you as I did upon my arrival; a child of few years."

"Ah, Galen," said Baudry, his smile having never slipped, "if I changed as little as you do, perhaps I would also think the same."

Galen looked at him curiously, his eyes searching for any hidden meaning. Edy felt unsure about his gaze. The smile still remained on the other man's face but his eyes looked old, keen and searching. From her knowledge, Baudry had never asked about the man's unchanging physique. It had seemed an unspoken taboo to talk about it, although with any other persons she would never hesitate to discuss it.

The tension was cut moments later as Yates returned from outside, two overspilled mugs of ale in his hands. Although the night passed merrily enough, she couldn't forget Galen's searching and keen eyes.

As promised, Baudry's lessons began soon after.

The duo passed into the forest regularly, disappearing for as long as week at a time as Galen taught the boy his skills. Edy saw less and less of her son, although she never felt nervous about his absences. She had always known that he would go off one day, perhaps to travel or to marry. After two decades of knowing Galen, she had no worries about his disposition and personality; no matter how closed he was about his past.

Her son transformed as his lessons continued.

He became considerate and helpful upon each return; as if he understood her daily woes and how difficult it was for her now complete her daily chores. He also grew into his natural form, as his body filled out with muscle and his height towered above her and Yates. He looked to her like some old warrior or princely lord. She knew that he drew the heads of many of the village girls. Yet, his mind seemed far from family and children and instead focused on solitary pursuits. Sometimes, he repeated stories of Kings, Queens and great battles that he had once heard from Galen. Stories that filled her with wonder.

And when Baudry returned from the forest with Galen, speaking softly of wondering wild-men and violent bands, she knew that Yates respected his warning. His own father saw him in his own right and no longer as the small child that needed help to climb into his bed.

Soon after, the men of the village started to bring out their weapons, stockpiling them in easily accessible areas. The mood changed from the easy, sea living atmosphere to that of tension and anticipation. Men took note of strangers now, drilling them with questions if they stayed in the inn. Trips to other towns now took place with a full set of weapons and a full report of where and when they were expected to return, if anything of worry were to take place.

In retrospect, the town would have been destroyed if it hadn't been for Galen.

The raiders came at midday.

The village was taken by surprise, with most of the men in the boats at sea and unable to provide relief.

Edy saw them running from the nearby cover of the forest, in the direction of the town. Her own cottage stood further to the side but would no doubt be targeted. They were brash and perhaps desperate. The villagers significantly outnumbered the bandits, but if Galen and Baudry had been hunting, they still would have lost the fight. They were fisherman and farmers, not warriors.

At her surprised yell, Galen had leapt from her bountifully provided lunch spread and, as if on impulse, grabbed at his bow. Startled, Baudry had followed the man's movements, his mind taking that moment longer to understand his actions.

Despite the distance, Galen's arrows had landed true immediately. Of the twenty bandits, one man to the ground as he pulled back his long bow's string and released a fletched arrow. Having once tried for a laugh herself, she knew that the string was near impossible to budge without significant strength. She marvelled at how quickly and fluidly he released the arrows. Baudry, although skilled, needed time to draw and aim, and to balance his nerves and focus in on his target. For every four arrows that flew, only one was her son's.

Yet, she felt that to compare her son to Galen was to compare a mortal hero to a God. As she watched him release arrow after arrow, with each finding its mark, she knew almost instantaneously that he was not human.

She couldn't imagine what he was but his strength, his focus and his grace was unnatural.

Did Baudry think the same, she wondered? Had he known from childhood that this man was different in some way?

Unskilled in warfare and unprotected, she could only huddle behind the table and watch the fight unfold.

The bandits, now aware of their arrows, started to move in their direction.

Her heart quailed at the sight.

Galen and her son had brought down a dozen of the bandits but were still outnumbered.

As they neared, Galen produced an elegant sword, barely bigger than a dagger, and one that she had never seen before. It was curved although the blade less broad than some she had seen. In his hand, it looked light and easy to control, although she was sure that it was heavier than it looked.

He didn't hesitate as he cut into the first man. Once the sword was withdrawn, he twisted the pierced man to use as a shield and hacked at the other, who had hesitated just slightly.

Baudry stood in front of her. He had pulled a scythe from off the side of the house and was slashing it in a broad arc around them. The men laughed at his efforts and she felt herself become panicked. They were outnumbered but her son was strong and agile from his days in the forest. One threw a small knife at her son and although he moved to the side, the blade still cut into his leg. His senses, controlled with adrenaline, meant that he evidently was not aware of the pain as he continued to slash.

While distracted, she hadn't been watching Galen. Soon, he drew her attention as the numbers thinned and their chances of survival ever increased.

He danced while he moved.

His face seemed impassive and perfectly controlled, as if he had performed such a routine hundreds of times before. Perhaps, she reasoned, he actually had. Perhaps he had once been a warrior and his calm, patient façade had never been the person he was inside. It would explain so much to her. Deep down, she had perhaps always known that he was a sleeping cat, just waiting for the chance to unfurl his claws.

Baudry, to his credit, cut down one bandit and, with one large hack, took the leg off another. His cries of pain disturbed her but she kept her calm as he brought the butt of the scythe down on his head. The bandit moved no more.

When the cruel but necessary action had been completed, they looked towards the other man. Galen swiftly dragged his knife over the last bandit's throat. The man fell to the ground, his body shuddering as the blood drained quickly down his front and into the soil.

Baudry lowered his scythe, breathing hard.

His eyes looked wide and aware from the adrenaline in his body. Edy felt her heart beat strongly in her chest, even though relief surged through her body at their escape.

Somehow, they had survived.

Galen stood calmly, surveying the fallen men with interest and then looking towards the forest with long searching eyes. His blade dripped blood but no splatter had fallen upon him. He seemed eerily composed, as if the men were but ants to him. The bandit's seemed to him but a nuisance and certainly not a challenge.

"Mother," she looked towards her son, his voice harsh and worried, "are you alright?"

"Yes," she replied, "I am. I think… is that all of them?"

"There are some in the tree-line still," replied Galen, calmly, "but they make no move towards the town. I think that they have taken my warning and will not risk it. I believe that we are safe, for now. I will keep watch for the night, in case they make a move against us still."

"Edy!" Came a voice and she turned around.

Yates was running from the beach, a trail of his own sailors behind him. They ran with abandon, faster than she thought he could manage. They had evidently seen the fight from the water, and rowed in straight away to the shore.

"Yates," she cried, her heart leaping at the sight of him. She waved her hands above her hand, as a sign of her health.

A few moments later, he arrived, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wrapped her into a tight and reassuring hug.

"Baudry! Edy! What happened?"

"We're fine," said Baudry. "They were bandits, heading for town while the men were away."

"Bandits! And by the look of it, there were many of them. How did you survive? There were so many!"

Yates looked genuinely surprised, sweat streaming from his forehead as he continued to breath heavily. The other men had since arrived and were looking at Galen with awe. He seemed otherworldly, as he continued to peer at the forest in silence. Around him, the bodies of half a dozen men lay. All with relatively neat wounds, and him, untouched by blood or violence.

"Galen," said Yates, his voice clipped and hoarse. Galen turned to look at him, his face a picture of focus and strength.

Her husband stepped forward, his face ruddy from the surging blood as he stepped over the men's bodies. She nearly swore in shock as he embraced the other man. Her husband had never done so to another man beside his sons, to her knowledge. After decades of marriage, he still continued to surprise her.

"You saved my wife and child," Yates said, stepping back and his hand still on the other mans shoulder. "I am forever in your debt."

Galen seemed abashed at the action, his focus broken. "Our debt is repaid then from when you retrieved me from the stormy sea. I did not fight though to settle a debt, I did the same as you would have."

Yates laughed, "If I had these skills of battle, I would not be a fisherman. You have saved my family and for that, I will always be grateful."

"Do not think me alone in my fight. Baudry was courageous and rose to the challenge without question or hesitation."

"Come here son," said Yates, as he folded his son in an enormous hug and ruffled his hair. Baudry looked embarrassed but also proud.

"I must fetch any arrows unbroken," said Galen. "And then I must decide whether to move on from this town."

His statement shocked the group that had formed. Whispers broke out between the men behind Yates. Baudry looked dumbstruck by the proclamation and heartbroken.

"No!" Said her son, "Why would you leave? You _can't_ leave."

"I have done what I can for this town and learned much in my time here," said Galen, his expression soft but firm, "but as I released these arrows, my head caught up to my heart. I know now that I must move on and see the land that I have come to. I must fight when needed, even though my heart longs for peace and rest. There is something in the wind that I cannot name; a restlessness to fate that speaks of war and fighting. I must decide if I am to join the change that is soon to come. Perhaps that is why I was cast on this shore and delivered to your homes. Perhaps I was always meant to grow fond of humanity once more, so that I could fight for them when needed."

"But this isn't fair," said her son, on the verge of tears, "I have so much to learn and so many questions to ask. I'm not ready."

Galen paused for a moment, looking at Yates and Edy in turn. He seemed to be debating something within himself. A question that was more complex than she could guess.

"You may come with me, if you wish?"

Baudry grew silent, his face thoughtful. She wondered if he had ever considered leaving permanently before. Whether this was a conversation that Galen and he had already had once.

"But the town… it… it is unprotected."

"I can not be at all places at once. Even if I stayed, I cannot promise that I would be here for the next attack. The best thing that we can do is go to the local lord and appeal for guards and security. If they care for these people, or even their taxes, they will send help. If we make haste, we may make it in time for the guards to arrive before the next attack. And if we are not successful, they you may return if you think it needed."

Baudry turned to her, his eyes full of hope and excitement, although his face seemed torn, "Mother…"

She sighed, "I don't know why but I feel that I have always known that this day would come, perhaps from the first day that we bought you from the ocean. I looked at you, Galen, and saw great deeds and adventures and in my heart, I knew that Baudry would be seduced by their appeal. It is not my place to stop my son from seeing the world. But I ask that you take care of him. That you promise to care for him and to always act with his safety in mind."

Galen nodded, "I will, Edy. I would never seek to harm your child, if not for his own honour and worth then as a sign of my respect for you."

She signed again, placing her hands on her hips.

Yates squeezed Baudry's shoulder once more, "Lad, go off and have your fun. Just don't forget us simple folk here. We wont forget you."

A smile bloomed over his face and his shoulders loosened, as if he had been afraid of their answer. "I will come back. I promise."

"I know you will," replied Yates and Edy nodded her agreement.

They left the town shortly after, having made sure that the bandits were buried. So as to not alert the remaining figures in the forest, they left in the dark, when the moon was not full but only a slim sliver of light in the sky.

Like shadows, they passed into the night.

Security arrived weeks after. Truly, they had made good time in their journey and been successful in their appeals. The guards were warmer than expected, pitching in when needed and generally being well received by the village. To her surprise, one even secured a wife of the local girls and sired a child. The bandits, perhaps afraid of the strange and brutal warrior they had once encountered, no longer bothered them.

Edy still felt nervousness in her bones when the night was dark and the wind rattled her cottage door. She could still never forget how easy it was for the cruel men to surprise their town and how easily her life would have ended if it was not for Galen.

Baudry wrote to her sometimes. Her reading had never been strong, so she took days to pour over the notes. With no return address or messenger around, she was never able to reply. Baudry's writing, shaky and unpractised at first, continued to become more elegant with each letter. The writing took on a flowing element and she found herself absorbed by their tales, despite how dangerous each week seemed.

Throughout all the letters, Galen remained unchanged. Baudry wrote sometimes as if he did so in secret, commenting on the man's unchanged appearance. He wrote of his speculations and suspicions, as if the letter was his own personal diary. She could only ever agree with his words and with the awe he held for the unchanging man.

At some point, the letters changed. She wondered if they had discussed something, for he no longer wrote with surprise and wonder at the man. His letters took on a certain confidence, as if his suspicions had been finally laid to rest. As if, finally, he knew the one answer to his many questions. In her mind, she wondered whether Galen had told him of his past and finally revealed his true name and station.

She heard of their adventures. Of the Kings they supported, the battles that they had won and the journeys that they made from island-to-island. They had became the focus of songs and stories; celebrities to the townspeople, some of whom where too young to have met them. As Baudry's mother, she became respected in her own right as the person who had raised a hero.

The years passed and together with Yates, her body started to fail. Her eyesight seemed to dim, and her speed slowed to a snails pace.

She grew worried that she would die before her son's return.

Yet, in her dreams, she felt younger than she ever had. She walked under the stars as a young lady, her limbs full of energy and vigour. She always walked towards a grand woman with a star on her hand, who seemed to be watching her with patient eyes. She never made it to her throne, as if the time for her to see that shining face was not yet upon her.

Baudry did return, although her eyes were near to gone for her to truly see him approach. Instead, she knew it was him from the way he held her hand and kissed her cheek. She could tell from the soft sound of Yates crying as they saw him for the first time in three decades.

She wept at the feel of him. Her heart felt peaceful for the first time in years at his scent. They revelled in his presence, soaking up his energy and feeling themselves come alive for the first time in years.

But, she noted, he returned alone.

His youth had vanished and he stood beside her as a man in his own right. A man who had seen and done much, and who now felt the pressures of age.

He spoke of parting with Galen, of how age had been the decider.

He spoke of how an Eagle can never understand a Deer's inability to fly. How, as age had begun to descend, he had fallen behind. By his account, they parted on warm terms, although there was sadness in his voice as he had described his inability to keep up. He described the exhausting quality of fighting side-by-side with a man who never tired.

She understood, although she didn't voice her thoughts. She knew what he talked of when he mentioned the unyielding pace. She had seen it once, when he had taken down the bandit's with hardly an extra breath. She had seen it in the unblinking eyes of the man as he had rested. She had seen it in the lack of age on his face, and the way that he saw so far and carved so precisely.

He was not human, of that she was sure.

She knew that Baudry was aware of this; although she was sure that Galen had told him of such. His letters had shown her that the secret had been broken at some point. That his suspicions had been laid to rest.

Returned from adventuring and now without Galen around to distract, Baudry did as humans do.

He fell in love and gave her grandchildren. He cared for her as she aged and took over the fishing when Yates could do no more. He became the voice of reason for the town, and increased their size twofold. He laughed at the songs where he was sung as a hero, and taught the young men wrestling and fighting. He knew what it was to give up his money to a lord, and to effects of an ill prepared winter and the goodness of a well-trained mule.

They continued to hear songs from the travelling bards.

They told of a golden haired warrior who defied the Kings and stood for the rights of the people. They told of a quick sword and strong forearm, and a noble man who shone like a star and sounded like bells when he laughed. They told of his curved and sweeping bow, and his Eagle like eyesight that saw all and spared none

To her end, she dreamed of the Lady who sat on her throne. She dreamed that she approached her and took her hand and looked into the eyes of a Queen older than the world itself. She dreamed that the grass line ended and she walked instead upon stone and marble, up to a tower and a city that was bathed in silver and light.

As she drew her first breath beside the Lady, Edy drew her last in life.

* * *

 ****

 **AN:** This is an unspecified location and unspecified time. While many of the stories will be of specific events and times (see Troy), some will be more general. In those stories, my aim is not the talk of the struggles of surviving that timeframe but instead the emotional and human reactions that would transcend centuries. I hope that I have achieved that. I have become quite fond of the characters in my time writing them. I hope that you enjoyed it.

Once again, if you have suggestions for other times or events, please let me know and I will write them!


	3. The Plague

**The Age of Men**

Chapter Summary: the plague has hit Cambridge and the town suffers. A non-believer offers some relief to the villagers.

~xx~

"If I go that way, what if I catch it?"

John stared into his mothers face; earnestly trying to get across to her how desperately he wanted to avoid the area.

"You're going to have to go. We need water from the Well and there is no one else game enough to go. There are too many people relying on me to go and risk myself."

"But I'm scared…" he muttered under his breath, hating that he had to admit it but also wanting his mother to understand that he really didn't want to go down that way.

His mother, usually a hard woman, knelt down in front of him and pulled him in for a hug. He squeezed her, indulging in the rare hug she had pulled him into and realising as well how bony she was under her clothes. She smelled a bit, he couldn't deny it. None of them had water to wash their faces with. Whatever they had was used for the most important tasks. They needed to avoid the Well as much as possible.

"I know you're scared," she said, as she leaned back from the embrace. "But you've got a family that needs water. Your baby sister can't go on much longer without a wash. Someone from this family must go and get it. But if something were to happen to me, we'd all be in peril. Do you understand? I need you to be a big brother now and think of your sisters."

He nodded, tears gathering in his eyes. He didn't want to have to make decisions like this. The whole world felt unfair to him.

"Okay," he said, picking up the pail. "I'll go."

She nodded, looking at him with relief and worry. He knew that she didn't want him to go and he also knew that if something happened to her, they'd all be on death's door. He hated that he was the only sensible choice.

His eyes flickered to the door, where he could only just see the curious eyes of his younger sister. She would be five in a month but she didn't seem like a child anymore. She was too skinny and frail and her eyes were filled up with worries beyond her age. She had taken to caring for her baby sister like a mother, fretting over her endlessly. She looked grimy and greasy, her hair unwashed and heavy. She stared at them, watching their exchange wordlessly. To him, she looked like a ghost.

He turned, hating the way that they expected him to risk his life but still feeling that he needed to protect them.

He walked out onto the street, the sound of distant church bells reaching his ears. They were a regular sound now, each new ringing an announcement of a death. At first they had been an occasional occurrence and a signal that they should count their blessings and give as much as they could to the church. But now, it was just a part of his normal life.

The street was empty as no one had dared venture out. He could hear the sounds of families behind their closed doors. But none had walked into the street. No one was as stupid as he was.

He passed the first house, trying to be as silent as possible. He was nervous and anxious and dreading the thought of someone hearing him. A man sat leaning against the side of the house outside. His eyes were closed but his body didn't seem relaxed enough for him to be asleep. As he approached, the man peeked open his eyes, glaring at him.

He accidentally stepped on an odd shaped rock, causing it to skittle across the uneven road. It was a relatively soft sound but still a sound that was loud enough.

"Hello? Is there someone out there? Hello? Please. I need water. I need food. Please help me."

The man guarding the door looked up, his face full of frustration and anger. The voice from inside was distant and muffled but the desperation was clearly audible.

"You keep it down in there!" He snarled, banging his fist on the side of the house.

The voice stopped, silenced by the guard's reaction. He hated to think of poor Annabelle inside, her skinny body even thinner. She was as good as dead now. There was no way she'd last through the quarantine. And even if she did, who could emerge with sanity after being locked up by your own village? He couldn't imagine the horror of being locked inside with a dead body.

"Sod off you brat," said the guard, spitting at the ground.

John didn't recognise the man and he was pretty good with faces. He'd spend his weekend at the markets, reciting everyone's names and watching the people he didn't recognise. But a lot of faces had now disappeared, no doubt covered by soil and worms in the big pits they had dug away from town. His own street was like a different village altogether. The sights and sounds of his friends and neighbours had disappeared. Every street became silent, echoing as strangely as it did before dawn when people had yet to rise and the streets were covered by thick mist.

London folk had started to stream in, filling the town with yet stranger faces. There were some big, burly men with no family to speak of who needed the money and didn't mind guarding a plague house to get it. They were popping up on every street, lounging outside of shut up houses and snarling at anyone who tried to get close. They were used to desperate relatives that would stop at nothing to break a loved one out of their quarantine. Still, John knew that they couldn't let the people out. Not even poor Annabelle. She was one of the unlucky ones.

He walked hurriedly away, keeping his eyes down to avoid looking up at the houses and getting distracted by how awful the whole situation was.

As he weaved through the streets, the houses covered in boards and guarded by angry men began to grow in frequency. Instead of one for every couple of streets, it was soon two or three per street. He was getting nervous and he was moving into the thick of the diseased area.

Up ahead, he spied the Well. He felt his heart hammer in his chest, amazed that he had got so far without bumping into anyone.

It was truly a ghost town.

He stoped, frozen. He could hear the sound of conversation and he darted his head towards it. His brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of the exchange.

Years ago, a small property had been bought on the outskirts of town by a stranger of the village. The man was secretive, although by all accounts pleasant. He would hardly venture into the village, preferring instead to live in solitude and to keep to himself. The women of the town, instantly adoring of him due to his good looks and soft manners, were deeply disappointed when he refused to join their social events and kept a wide berth from every occasion where flirting or matchmaking could be undertaken. He had only interacted with the man once, having once knocked on his door to offer his mothers clothes washing services to him after his fathers death. He had, at that point, knocked on every person's door in town, frantically trying to build some business for his mother who was scrambling to keep them afloat. The man had been kind but refused. At the flood of tears that had escaped him, the man had spent a generous hour talking to him about his father's death. He had been shocked to discover 20 shillings snuck into his pocket when he had arrived home. It was the largest amount he had ever held and the entire event had been too embarrassing for him to stomach. Although he should have ran straight to the man and thanked him, the whole episode made him want to crawl into a ball and he had tried to forget about it as quickly as he could.

Seeing him in the street made a blush of embarrassment rise once more to his cheeks as he remembered the entire incident.

The woman he was talking to, glanced up at him and glared. She was clearly as terrified of him as he was of her. Everyone was the enemy now. Nobody knew who had the plague and what really caused it to spread. She turned to Lyell quickly and seemed to speak to him kindly, taking from him some bread and meat. Quickly, she turned and raced back into her house, slamming the door behind her.

Lyell didn't seem bothered. He pulled behind him small pony, burdened with food. The sight of it made John's mouth water. He could see bread and vegetables poking out of the packs. They had survived on next to nothing since the money he had been last gifted had run out. His mother's washing had only just managed to cover their most basic expenses.

Lyell looked towards him and smiled, his face betraying no sense of fear or worry at the sight of him. John was reminded once more of how different Lyell was from anyone he had ever met before. He was tall and, not that he used the word often towards men, but graceful. Even just the way he guided the pony seemed to be done with a level of purposeful grace.

"It is rare to see a person on the streets today," said Lyell as he approached.

John momentarily felt himself tongue-tied, his mind still existing in the moment when he had cried on the man's porch.

He shook himself out of his thoughts, "Y-yes, I'm going to the Well."

He cleared his throat, hating himself for the small stutter that had entered his voice.

"Ah," said Lyell, "I am passing that way. Perhaps we could walk together?"

He nodded his head. Lyell guided the pony gently, the animal following him without hesitation. John fell into step beside him, wondering at the strange turn of events.

"What are you doing out here?" John asked.

"Selling my wares," the man answered, simply.

"But aren't you afraid?"

"Of what?"

He nearly laughed at the absurdity of the man's statement, "the plague! This is the worst part of the town with it right now. Everyone's locked themselves away."

"Oh yes. Such things don't worry me. I won't get sick from it."

John raised his eyebrows at the confidence behind the statement, "how can you be so sure? No one really knows what causes it. For all you know, I could have it right now."

"You could and yet that still wouldn't worry me. I won't catch it. I never have and I never will."

"So you've be around the plague before then?"

"Yes, many years ago. This disease has been around for centuries now. It is a truly devastating affliction."

John nodded, "it is. I am thankful to God that I haven't caught it yet."

Lyell nodded absently, as though he understood the sentiment but didn't quite share the view. John dismissed his thoughts as they tried to over-analyse his reaction.

"Is your mother well?" Lyell asked, his face full of genuine concern.

John blushed, knowing that the other man fully remembered his breakdown. He had stupidly thought that perhaps the other man had forgotten it.

"She is… getting by. It is still hard. I am trying to help her as best as I can. But business has not been strong and we only just manage."

"Is that why you are fetching water? To help your mother?"

"Yes…" he admitted, knowing that the act was so small compared to the other things he should be doing to hope. He was still much too young to take on proper work. He had only just passed his tenth birthday and all the Masters were too afraid to take on apprentices, lest they be afflicted with the plague. Until the disease died down, he would have to do odd jobs here and there to get a couple of pence.

"That is very brave of you," said Lyell, softly. "It is a dangerous area to be around."

"I know. But my sisters must wash or we will get sick. And my mother must have water for the clothes washing. There is no way around it."

He peeked up at one of the houses, grimacing at the sight of a young, skinny girl looking out the window at them. She was clearly bored and sick of being cooped up inside. She smiled at him, sticking her fist in her mouth as she did so. He smiled and looked down to the ground, still glad he could find humour in the bleak circumstances.

A man opened the door nervously, his head just peeking out of the small sliver of space he had allowed.

"You there," said the man loudly, "are you selling food?"

"I am," answered Lyell.

The man shut the door for a moment, the sound of his footsteps echoing from inside. He opened it again, carrying an old leather pouch. He approached them nervously. From the window, John could see the man's wife watching.

"What have you got?" He asked.

"Bread, dried fish and meats, nuts and grain. Whatever you wish."

"Dried fruit and grain will do us," he answered, his face pinched by the same fear that made strangers run from each other in the streets. Yet, his need to feed his family had overcome his own survival instincts. John felt him to be extremely brave. He knew why the man had chosen dried fruits and grain. Perhaps it was a silly superstition but some didn't trust food baked or handled by others. Most villages felt that nuts, fruits and grain would be difficult to infect.

"Two pence," said Lyell.

The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The cost was much less than he had been expecting.

"How much are you selling?" Asked the man suspiciously.

"I have a pound of dried fruit and grain."

"A pound of dried fruit for two pence? What are you trying here?"

"Nothing," replied Lyell, his face betraying no sense of worry, only amusement at the man's reaction. "I am being earnest. I wish to help the village. I will have no customers if you all starve."

"I've heard of you," said the man, his face still suspicious, "so if there is something the matter with this food, I'll find you myself and make you pay."

"I have no doubts about your honesty," said Lyell. He moved to the pony's side, pulling out, as promised, the pound of dried fruit and pound of grain.

"But if this is real," hesitated the man, his face betraying his need to believe in the good of people, "you have my thanks. May God bless you and your charity."

"I will come around tomorrow before noon. Look for me if you require more food."

A small smile cracked through the harsh face of the man. He nodded, heading back to his house and his eagerly waiting wife who watched his every step to the door.

Lyell ran his hand down the pony's face, scratching at the soft patch at his nostrils.

" _So limbe caure_ ," muttered the man to himself, hardly loud enough for John to hear.

"Is that French?" He asked, having never heard such words before.

Lyelle seemed surprised at his question, as if had forgotten that he had spoken the words aloud.

"No."

He turned away quickly, his answer short and reluctant, clearly indicating that he was not going to speak more of it.

John watched him for a moment before following the two as they once more walked in the direction of the well.

"Why did you charge so little for the food? Most people would charge more if they knew people were desperate enough…"

Lyell looked down at him, "that wouldn't be the right thing to do."

"It wouldn't… but I have seen people do it."

"It's true that I could take advantage of these peoples desperation if I wished. Yet there have been many times in my life when I have relied on the kindness of strangers. I have the time and the resources to give so I believe it is my obligation to do so."

John nodded, "Sir, do you go to church?"

Lyell looked surprised at the question, "why do you ask?"

"That sounds like something a monk or a priest would say. But I've never seen you at church before."

"No, I don't go to church…"

The man seemed uncomfortable at the admission. He even looked around warily as he said it. John understood that many adults would judge him harshly for such a statement. England was God's country and to be a non-believer was not acceptable. If it were any other time, perhaps he would have looked down on Lyell as well. But he couldn't muster up the strength for any more worrying. He had his family to think about and it was stressful enough trying to live from day-to-day. Besides, to him, actions spoke louder than words. Lyell was out in the street, helping the people while the university had barred itself off from the world. The most Christian men he knew had turned their backs on them, and yet a self-admitted heathen was doing his best to help out his neighbours.

"Where did you learn about what you should and shouldn't do?"

"Well…" trailed off Lyell, obviously thinking deeply, "my father and mother. Many years ago now… they taught me most of what I know. And stories. Stories have always demonstrated what poor choices and being cruel will lead to. Whether they are true or not seldom matters. And…" Lyell halted, as if reliving in his mind a long repressed memory, "I have seen modest people do amazing things. When you have seen such feats of courage and bravery, you realise that there is good in this world."

"Is that why you're doing this now?" Asked John. In his eyes, walking amongst a plague-infected quarter of the village was not just dangerous but downright suicide. And yet, he was walking from house to house, making sure that everyone had food to eat.

"Perhaps it is. I hadn't really thought of it in that way. It just seemed the right thing to do."

They lapsed into silence. For the first time in a long time, John felt something akin to contentedness within him. He felt like he was standing amongst someone who understood despair and tragedy but was never willing to let it overcome him. In the silent, unmoving streets, he felt like he had stepped out of time itself and entered a space where all of his menial problems meant nothing.

The Well approached. Beside a few rotted apples around it, the area was deserted.

As they approached its rim, Lyell stopped and looked at him. He felt that the man's expression had something akin to fondness in it.

"I should continue," said Lyell, "I have many houses to still visit."

"Of course," said John, sadly. He would miss talking to Lyell. Already, he had learned so much about the man and about his own fears.

They stood for a moment, both lost in their thoughts.

"If I remember correctly, your name was John."

"Yes. Yes, it is."

Lyell nodded, "and you know where I live?"

"Yes. Why, sir?"

"I am in need of someone to wash my clothes. It is a task that I abhor beyond all others and I would welcome the chance to hand the chore off to someone else. I also need someone to mind my place when I travel. I sometimes leave for months at a time and I need a trustworthy person to care for my animals and keep the property in good order. Would this interest you? I could pay you well for the task."

"Yes!" He nearly choked on the word as he rushed to burst it out of his mouth. "Yes! I would do a great job, I promise!"

"Excellent, this puts my mind at ease then. Head to my house tomorrow and I will have some washing for you to take."

John felt like his face would split open from the width of his smile. He couldn't imagine a luckier event to occur. They would finally have enough to start enjoying themselves. If he brought in a regular customer, they wouldn't need to beg for coins from the parish or water down the stew to make it stretch.

"Thank you, sir. I don't know how to thank you!" He gushed, aware that his ears were going red.

"You're the one doing me the favour," Lyell laughed, the sound reminding John of bells in the wind when they weren't an omen of death but a signal of joy.

Lyell guided the pony away, walking slowly towards the worst part of the village. There, he would be met with corpses pushed onto the street by terrified families; the hacking coughs of half conscious invalids and the eye watering smell of corpses. But to John, the path seemed less horrific. As he walked, it seemed like the trees and the grass was just a bit greener and the air just a bit fresher.

Breathing deeply from excitement, he dropped his pail into the Well, hardly caring about the burn in his arms as he pulled it up. The water splashed again his trousers as he rushed home, his lungs heaving with the effort of his pace and the heavy bucket.

He pushed open the door, surprising his younger sister and his mother who were sitting at the table. They looked up at him, there eyes deeply ringed by stress and fatigue. They looked so haggard that he was surprised to see them even awake.

"Mother! You'll never guess what just happened. It's a miracle!"

Her face, seeing his energy and excitement, seemed just a bit brighter.

~xx~

AN: please leave a review and let me know what you think of these one shots. I am very open to suggestions about what I should tackle next. I am looking to get back into writing so hopefully I wont be too long with another chapter!


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